Journal Entry of a GenXer

The Last Summer Light of Cape Cod

September 27, 2025

Today felt like the end. Not just of the day, or the weekend, but of the season—the kind of ending you don’t really say out loud, but feel deep in your chest.

We walked the beach at low tide, barefoot, where the sand was damp and cool beneath our feet. The ocean had pulled away just enough to reveal the clamming flats, wide and glistening, like some old secret being slowly unburied. Dune grass swayed in the breeze beside us, soft and low, brushing against our legs. It felt like everything around us was slowing down, breathing a little deeper, like it too knew summer was slipping away.

The sky wore that soft Cape Cod pink—the kind of color that only shows up when the sun is about to say goodbye. It didn’t feel dramatic, just... gentle. Like a whispered farewell.

The cottages lining the shore had already shuttered up. Those weathered shingles and faded blue doors that once felt full of life now looked like they were sleeping. Even the hydrangeas were beginning to bow their heavy heads—still full of color, but tired, as if they’d bloomed just a bit too long.

Out on the water, a few sailboats drifted back toward the harbor, their white sails ghosting across the horizon. We watched them until they blurred into the evening haze. I didn’t realize how quiet everything had gotten until a gull called out overhead—and then even that sound faded.

The tide made its slow return, inching toward our footprints, ready to carry the day away. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. The silence between us felt full, not empty. Warm, not cold.

Even as the air cooled and the shadows lengthened, I could still smell salt on your skin. Still feel summer between us, even as it left everything else behind.

There’s something about Cape Cod in September—it doesn't let go all at once. It lingers. And maybe that’s what I’ll carry with me: not just the memory of summer, but the feeling of it still holding on, just a little longer, in the quiet between the tides.